We know it's hot, we know in a week everyone in your office is
going to be on vacation, we know that your electric bill is double what
it will be in two months. It's the worst part of summer, the "dog
days," as they say, and it's destroying your will to live.

We don't care. It's just about two weeks until Madden 2006 comes out,
and "FANTASY FOOTBALL" is blazing across the cover of our Sports
Illustrated. Heat? PLEASE. We didn't even freaking notice. Nothing
keeps you cool over the summer than training camp. Well, that and sitting
on blocks of liquid nitrogen. But that's another story.

We've got 10 reviews this week. We plan on that next week as well. But
only you can help! Use the form on the right to smile and be free.

-- BT

The Black Table
needs your help! Every week, we need reviews of the latest media-related
crud, new products from Capitalists and odd idea, concept or trend. All
you need to have is a sharp opinion that you can distill down to one paragraph
of 150 words and give a letter grade. To submit, please fill out the form
below. Entries may edited for length, style and clarity. Hit us with your
best shot. Fire away.

Name:

Email Address:

Item Being Reviewed:

Type your review here. And remember
to add a letter grade, or else we'll make one up and embarass you in
front of all your friends:

Before you submit anything, ask
yourself the following: Have I put a grade on my review? Have I read
this thing at least once? Will anyone care what I wrote? If the answer
is NO to any of those questions, break down and cry, knowing you're
a failure who can't do anything right. You stupid face head moron!

PEPPERMINT-SCENTED PEE & POOP: I began taking the peppermint
soft gels (Mentha Piperita) to calm my, eh, erratic intestine (Spasmodicus
Poopchutea). Two a day, between meals. The effects began almost immediately:
not the comforting of my bowels, but the pepperminting of my waste. Taking
a piss at a crappy bar, it hits me: "Shit, my pee smells good, like
a fucking candy dish!" The real test comes the next morning via my
clockwork a.m. ca-ca (Dawnicus Excreta). Lo and behold, I can finally
say it: MY SHIT DON'T STINK. Oh, as for the intestinal trouble, I think
it took care of itself. A -- hillmarky

THE ANDY MILONAKIS SHOW: Caught a few episodes of the show six
people have labeled genius the other day when I couldn't find the remote
and MTV was stuck on repeat. Somewhat amusing in a "at least lil'
Andy's bucking the trend and is putting his energy to good use instead
of gunning down his tormenting classmates" sort of way, one sketch
in particular though had me lift my head off the couch long enough to
shake it in disgust. Biz Markie was making a cameo, and I thought it was
a stretch for the show's dozen writers to team the Biz up with a kid who
hadn't even been born when "Just a Friend" was on the charts.
Then my roommate hit me with the truth. "Dude, he's not a kid. Everyone
thinks he's a kid, but he's like old." Huh? A quick search gave fact
to this hearsay. On his next birthday, that little cherub wearing a pancake
on his face is turning the big 3-0, a fact that MTV is more than a little
coy about. Instantly, his show went from funny-sad to just sad. No wonder
Andy sounds so disaffected when he tries to show childlike glee, he's
a bitter adult like the rest of us. Suddenly the entire cast of the "Surreal
Life" has a lot more pride and dignity. D -- Todd
Munson

THE MALE GAZE: Yes, ladies, we really do think Jessica Simpson,

Christina Aguilera, Paris Hilton and the rest of their ilk are off-the-chain
hot, and we're a little sick of you getting your post-feminist panties
all bunched up about it. With all due respect, your opinion on who we
should be beating off to is about as relevant as Jude Law's parenting
advice. Men are genetically enslaved to big tits, pneumatic bodies and
impossible bone structure. We've accepted our fate; why can't you? And
don't bring up your turncoat friend who claims to be captivated by Cate
Blanchett's eyes; we caught him buying the "Dukes of Hazzard"
bootleg on the L train. If it makes you feel any better, most of us would
rather snuff out our eardrums with post-coital Marlboros than engage in
conversation with one of our airbrushed objects of desire. So why don't
you get a little less worked up over our Britney Spears screensaver, and
we'll do our best to come to grips with Jimmy Fallon's inexplicable hold
on your hearts. "You know those are fake, right?" F --
Ryan Dodge

THE CURRENT JOBS OF THE SEINFELD STARS: I, like the rest of America,
love Seinfeld. I do not, however, love what has become of the former "Seinfeld"
stars. Jason Alexander's shilling for Chrysler, acting in that stupid
sitcom "Listen Up" and delivering for Amazon. (I kid you not.
(Here's
the link.) Michael Richards has been relegated to voice work. Julia
Louis-Dreyfus is set to star in what will probably be another sitcom stinker,
"Old Christine." (The first was "Watching Ellie,"
which you probably don't remember because you either didn't watch it or
are repressing the memories.) And the big guy? Seinfeld is resting on
his laurels, and his residual checks, save for doing the occasional stand-up
comedy show. Guys, I know "Seinfeld" is impossible to top, but
surely, <EM>surely</EM> better efforts than these can be made.
Don't let O'Hurley show you up with that Dancing with the Stars crap.
F -- Gena
Hymowech

BOUNCERS WHO LOOK AT ME FUNNY WHEN I HAND THEM MY ID: Look, I
know I'm an old fart. I've been legal since the end of the first Bush
administration, and I didn't even look underage when I actually was
underage. But when I break out my driver's license, I'm doing so because
it looks like you're carding everyone in front of me. I just want to cooperate.
So don't give me one of those "You're kidding, right?" looks
when I hand you my ID. That just makes me feel even older than I already
do. Just humor me; take a look at the thing and hand it back. Two seconds
out of your day will prevent me from patronizing your establishment in
an extremely pissed-off mood. Those $6 Guinnesses make me pissed-off enough.
F -- Joel
Keller

CUTE PUPPIES THAT TRICK YOU INTO BUYING THEM: I was in a pet store
on Sixth Avenue last week when I saw two adorable white balls of cuteness
rolling around in the window. I recognized them as baby bulldogs. Awww.
Immediately, a couple next to me went into the store and began to play
with the female. Sure, they are cute, but I wonder if the pet store will
tell the couple that when their little white piggy gets older, they will
need to clean her wrinkles almost every day, perhaps applying Vaseline
and ointment. They also may need to lube the dog's eyes when they dry
out, a common bulldog affliction. Their tails also sometimes settle into
a pocket, and that takes cleaning, too. They also might need to squirt
lemon into the dog's throat if it clogs with phlegm. And, oh, it's hot
out, so make sure your piggy stays inside in the air conditioning or he'll
overheat like Dad's old Plymouth. I know that the cuteness is worth the
$1,000, but I'd like to take this moment to encourage the adopting of
a shelter dog. Oops, almost forgot, bulldogs' eye discharge sometimes
stains their fur and requires careful cleaning. Now that's cute!! C
-- Caren Lissner

GOING TO THE COURTHOUSE: I'm getting fingerprinted so that a computer
in the state capitol can spit out a piece of paper confirming that I've
never done anything criminally wrong. I have every right to be here, sitting
on what I swear is the exact same bench once parked outside my elementary
school principal's office. I'm simply making use of the massive, disinfectant-smelling
bureaucracy we all pay into, to prove to fellow citizens that I'm a safe,
sane, team-player type with no record of diddling minors or floating nix
checks. So why is it that a trickle of sweat is meandering down the buttons
of my spine, and how come when the lady comes out to call my name, I jump
three feet in the air and look around guiltily, as if expecting Geraldo
Rivera to have taken an interest in my paper-pushing formalities? Reflexive
institutional heebie-jeebies: C-. Getting to leave under my own
power, without leg irons: A -- Bergman

HALFWAY HOOKUP: Back in America for the first time in ten months
and hey! Why not get together for a drink or two, see if the sparks are
still there? When four minutes into meeting we're making out on the kitchen
counter, and then you're pushing me away and saying that we "can't
do it" because the Frenchy who rollerblades around campus that you
dumped me for is off in France, I probably should have just gone home,
watched the Cards game and forgot about it. But no! To the bar, and more
making out, followed by slaps to the face, followed by groping in the
car, followed by tears, followed by breathless questions about condoms
and if I had any, followed by your rushing for the door and me lamely
chasing after you (but only after zipping myself up in my goddamned zipper),
followed by me driving home alone at 3:30 and wondering what the hell
I came back for. But hell, Cards won. C -- Jake
Swearingen

KEYSPAN PARK: Coney Island's ball field, home to the Brooklyn
Cyclones, a class-A affiliate of the New York Mets, is one of the more
pristine treasures at Coney Island, most of which seems covered in about
83 layers of grease. The local ads for the likes of "Sal's Transmissions"
and others are a nice respite from the blaring chain-store nonsense at
the major league parks. Plus, to sit in the bleachers for $5 is a nice
treat. Of course, the game is only intermittedly interesting, but that's
kind of the point. We were most impressed with the Ketchup v. Mustard
race during one of the middle innings. Mustard won, so all was right with
the world. A- -- David
Gaffen

GETTING MY FIRST DUI: OK, I've been fucking up lately, I'll be
the first to admit it. But dammit, I love my vodka!! Oh, sweet potato
squeezins ... how i love thee. Anyhoo, the past two weeks have sucked
royal ass; I did a three-day self-admitted stint in "rehab"
(where I pretty much was tranqued-up and sleeping the whole time), took
a few days off work, etc. Didn't sleep that night, called in to work,
I did a few shots (yeah, three days in a behavioral center really cures)
and went down to the local pharmacy to fill my scrips for antidepressants.
Oops! Damn seatbelt laws in Indiana ... got pulled over by the local asshole
cop, blew one point over the legal limit. Three hours in jail and 100
bucks later, I was a free woman. Now I get to sit in suspension while
my attorney figures out how the hell to get me off with a reckless driving
charge ($1,000 well-spent, I'm sure!). Ahh, I suppose all those years
of getting away with shit has finally caught up to me. Getting to spend
three hours in the local redneck jail wearing used shoes: D-. Learning
a friggin' lesson: B+ -- michelle